


Handling The Seasons Of My Life

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She did exactly what all the movies said. It just didn’t seem to matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handling The Seasons Of My Life

Title: Handling The Seasons Of My Life  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman bromance  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through and particularly for "Sexy."  
Summary: She did exactly what all the movies said. It just didn’t seem to matter.  
A/N: Because misusing "Landslide" lyrics for titles is classy and original.

Going home just doesn’t seem like a viable option right now. Not with her skin vibrating like this, her heart thudding without steady rhythm against her breastbone, her knees trembling. It was a miracle just getting out of that hallway alive; the idea of driving scares her shitless.

Or it would, if she had any capacity for feeling right now.

She doesn’t care what anybody says. Being numb is one of the best feelings in the world. Right now, it’s what’s keeping her going.

The courtyard isn’t the ideal place to hang out, but she’s sort of out of options. The choir room isn’t safe; Brittany would know to look for her there. Likewise, the auditorium is off-limits; Schue and their Lesbian Guru of a Sex Ed sub were tonguing one another to death last she looked, and that’s puke-worthy on the best of days. The gym belongs to the badminton team she didn’t know they still had, and the locker room is…

Well.

Difficult.

Places don’t hold memories, she thinks dully. Places _are_ memories. And right now, not a single memory of that locker room can help her.

She’s suffocating.

 _I am so yours_ , Brittany said, wearing that saintly, beautiful smile, the one that says everything so her lips don’t have to. _I’m yours_. Except she isn’t. Except she hasn’t been for a long time. Except Santana _had_ her shot at that game, and she blew it with a poorly-rendered lizard analogy and a roll in Puckerman’s hay.

She knew better. She has _always_ known better. But now, now that she finally drudged up the nerve to say it out loud?

She kicks out at the brick wall, the toe of her sneaker colliding too lightly to do real damage, and growls under her breath. Weak. Cowardly.  
She wants nothing more than to kick and punch and break every bone she can, if it means putting even the tiniest dent in these feelings.  
The numb shell won’t last forever. She needs something more.

Now would be the greatest time in the world to _decimate_ someone. She wishes, fleetingly, that she still wore the old Santana Lopez skin: thick, tough, all biting sarcasm and super-short skirts. The uniform, the ponytail, the rage. _Those_ were productive. Helpful. They shielded her from all of…this.

The old Santana Lopez would have found Artie Abrams and rolled him right off a cliff.

She lashes out again, a little harder this time, an open palm crashing against the cracked wall. It hurts. Nothing like her chest, her bruised ego, but still. Pain.

“I thought lesbians needed their hands,” a familiar voice rings out behind her. Swearing softly, she shakes out the sting in her palm and stares at the wall. Looking at him won’t make her feel any better.

Killing him might, but unfortunately, Noah Puckerman is probably the only guy in this school to actually _get_ her a little bit.

“Seriously,” he continues, strolling over and nudging her shoulder. “Unless you’ve grown something new since we last did the dirty, I’m figuring your five-finger talents are all you’ve got. Don’t go breakin’ ‘em now.”

“Don’t you have a mountain to climb?” Santana snaps half-heartedly, too exhausted to even glance around to see if Lauren is within earshot. Anyway, who cares if she is? What’s another beating after a day like this one?

Puck jolts her with a tiny punch, like he couldn’t care less that she just took yet another shot at his girlfriend. Knowing him, it probably isn’t true, but they can’t all go baring their feelings in the same day. The inherent structure of the McKinley hierarchy is already in danger of going ass-up.

“You never hang out after school unless you’re in someone’s pants,” he points out. “What gives? Practicing your newest Tegan and Sara tune?”

“Fuck off.” The wall is starting to dance a little, details winding before her eyes. She probably should have had lunch. Or breakfast, for that matter.

“No can do, Lopez,” he sighs, bracing himself against the wall and crossing his arms behind his head. “You look like you’re gonna jump off the roof or some shit if I leave you alone too long. And I can’t lose my first real-life lesbian already.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” she repeats, snarling. He grins.

“Come on. You want tips? I can give you tips. You know I know how to get a girl off good. Is it Britt? I can _totally_ get you going on that one. Last time we did it, I made her come so hard, her eyes—“

It’s a stupid thing to go off about; she _knows_ it isn’t his fault. Knows he doesn’t know what’s going on. And it’s not like this story is a new one. All the same, before she can even think, she’s on him, clawing and punching whatever she can reach. A handful of shorn hair. Blunt nails across a high cheekbone. A stomp to the left foot. He shouts.

“Jesus! Tame your beast, woman! What the fuck are you _on_?”

His hands catch her wrists, body pivoting fast to pin her to the wall, and just like that, the fight drains right out of her. She’s gasping for breath, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, fists opening and closing helplessly like a child’s. His eyebrows come together hard, lips thin and displeased.

“Lopez. Talk.”

“I _did_ it,” she croaks. “Everything they say you’re supposed to. I got the fucking boombox, you know, I had it on my fucking shoulders. I _sang_. I sang a goddamn Fleetwood _Mac_ song. And I, you know, I fucking _spoke up_. I told her everything, I _did_ , and I meant it. I meant every fucking word. And she _knew_. She knew, she knows, and she’s still…she won’t…she doesn’t…”

She splits apart, head cracking against the wall when she flings it back with a sob. He’s still looking at her, but right now, she couldn’t care less.

“I told her every goddamn thing I was feeling. It’s what she wanted. She wanted to talk about feelings, about my fucking feelings, and I did. I told her _everything_. I did the thing, you know. I went after my girl. I opened up. And for what? What do I get out of it? What have I _ever_ gotten out of it?”

She’s talking too fast, damn-near ranting, only partially aware that his grip has gone slack around her wrists. He’s biting his lip, face dark and uneasy, the way she’s only seen him once or twice before.

“You told her.”

“ _Everything_ ,” she keens desperately, the words resounding off of the trees and the picnic table and the window panes. Every inch of her voice comes out shrill and vile. She wants to throw up.

“When?”

“Just now,” she sniffs. “Just. Today. In the hall. I thought…I don’t know what I fucking thought.”

“That she’d run into your arms?” he fills in helpfully. “That she’d fling herself at you, stick her tongue down your throat, all spinning camera angles and bright bursts of guitar?”

She slumps, feeling foolish. Her stomach is still clenched tight and now, added bonus, her head hurts like hell. Wonderful addition to this shitty day.

Puck releases her, legs still bent in a semi-defensive position. “Real life’s kinda shitty sometimes, huh?”

“Real life can die in a fire,” she drones, pushing shaking fingers into her hair and massaging the growing lump she finds. “Fuck.”

“Concussed?” His hands are large and warm when they pull hers aside, too clumsy to be helpful. Actually, his touch hurts more than anything, but she appreciates him anyway.

“I’ll live.”

“You’d better.” A smirk crawls across his lips. “I need my lesbian.”

“Not a fucking lesbian,” she tells him wearily, accepting the arm he laces around her shoulders and leaning into him. “Just…”

“A Brittsbian?” he suggests cheerfully, evidently proud of himself. She doesn’t have it in her to laugh.

“Whatever.”

“Dude,” he presses, nudging her again. “You’re freaking my shit out. The dead-eyed look does _not_ work for you, babe.”

“I told her everything,” she repeats helplessly. “Everything. And you know what? She’s still with him.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Some bros get all the luck.”

She glares up at him, sorely tempted to deck him between the legs. “You are not helping.”

“Oh, what- _ever_ ,” he sing-songs, pulling her bodily off of the wall and guiding her towards the nearest door. Back towards the hall, she realizes, heels digging instinctively into the grass. That hallway is the last place she wants to be right now.

“No way.”

“What, you’re gonna sleep out here? It’s fucking March. You’ll freeze before four AM.” He shakes his head. “Come on, Lauren and I are gonna do a movie thing. Pizza and beer. You’re in.”

“I don’t feel like playing nice with Jonah’s whale today,” she grumbles, ignoring his eyebrow. “Wanna go home and sleep for a week.”

“Not an option, babe.” Pushing hard, he manages to get her through the door and back into the school again. Instantly, a wave of nausea rolls in.

“Couldn’t hold down pizza if I tried,” she goes on. “I’m going to puke all over your mom’s couch.”

“Nope,” he replies merrily. “She’ll kill your ass good and dead, and then make you feel all guilty and shit later.”

“She can try,” Santana mutters, although she’s pretty sure Mrs. Puckerman would kick her butt _hard_ if properly motivated . Hell, Lauren would probably help for shits and giggles.

“We’re watching _Gladiator_ ,” he continues, steering her towards the front doors. As they pass her locker—The Locker, as she’s been thinking of it for hours now—her knees go weak. If she tries hard enough, she can still smell Brittany’s perfume, feel the rush of adrenaline and illness from that attempted hug—

“Again?” she manages to force out. “That’s like the eighteenth time.”

“Lauren hasn’t seen it.” He somehow manages to sound utterly affronted and excited at the same time. Must be a boy thing.

“Not worth eighteen views.”

His eyebrows shoot up, expression wounded. “Babe, it’s worth eight _hundred_ views.”

“No one likes Crowe that much.”

“Man’s a fuckin’ _tank_ ,” he disagrees, guiding her forcefully out the front doors and towards the parking lot. “You want a goddamn ladykiller, there you go. Crowe is the man.”

She wants to smile. Wants to punch his shoulder and laugh at his absurdity. He is trying his damndest to make a difference here, and she genuinely wants to help him.

Except the blonde hair in her mouth is too damn distracting. The sad blue eyes burned into her brain won’t let her look at anything else. The memory of how it _felt_ , to sit up there on that stool and sing her heart out, gaze locked with the one person she has always wanted. The person she always thought wanted her back.

“I don’t suppose you’ll help me push a wheelchair down the stairs,” she drawls, too tired to tell if she’s even joking. His lips purse, thoughtful.

“Would probably go against the bro code. But hey, ask Coach Sylvester. Last I checked, that was her fucking specialty.”

“They should put it on her Pokémon card,” Santana agrees. He snorts.

“Would that be one of the shiny ones?”

“If it wasn’t, she’d push _them_ down the fucking stairs.”

It almost hurts, listening to his laughter, to the good humor she knows she should be able to tap into. This shouldn’t be ruining her life. It shouldn’t break her. It’s just Brittany.

Except “just Brittany” has _never_ been just Brittany. Not since the first day they met.

“You want me to invite Sam?” Puck asks as they clamber into his truck. She catches his eye, makes a face. He grins. “Hey, Lady Lips doesn’t have a clue. Anyway, in love with a hot, flexible cheerleader or not, you’re still dating him. Might be nice.”

“I would rather kiss a frog,” she grumbles. His grin expands.

“You’re dating _Sam_. The joke writes itself.”

“I’m not—“ She pauses, head shaking. “I don’t care about him.”

“Of course not, but _he_ doesn’t know that. The dude’s got clueless written all over his pretty-boy face.”

She should feel bad about that, she figures. Should probably feel bad about a lot of things. But all she can feel is the force of sheer adrenaline, that absolute, perfect high—and the crash that felt unlike anything she’s ever known.

Puck is watching her when he should be looking at the road, knuckles tense around the steering wheel. “We could call her instead.”

“No,” she snaps without thinking. He shrugs.

“Just sayin’. She’s your best—“

” _No._ ” It comes out like a javelin dipped in venom. He shakes his head.

“Babe, don’t nail me in the gnads for saying this, but you might be the most messed up chick I have ever known.”

It’s the kind of remark that deserves retaliation. A punch, at the very least. Santana sinks down in her seat, forehead plastered to the window as Lima rumbles idly by.

“Tell me about it.”

Pizza, _Gladiator_ , and Lauren Zizes do not sound like the all-purpose, foolproof medication she's looking for. A bed, some sleeping pills, and a playlist of angry-girl rock sounds a hell of a lot better, truth be told. But places are memories, and right now, her room is almost as dangerous as that hallway.

It doesn’t help a lot, curling up against the Puckerman’s floral couch with her eyes fixed on the television. The half a slice she does manage to force down feels like it’ll come up at any moment. And all the while, she can still hear that apologetic, loving tone.

_I am so yours._

She isn’t. Not really.

She hasn’t been for a long time.

But fuck it, Santana finally told her.

It’s the first goddamn step.


End file.
